


Sunday Morning

by thusspakekate (orphan_account)



Series: love stories for the new age [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Sleepy Sex, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:14:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thusspakekate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry loves these lazy Sunday mornings. Written for the fifth round of kink_bingo, from the prompt somnophilia/sleepy sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Morning

The morning sun poured in through the windows, dragging Harry from the depths of his slumber. He yawned and stretched his sleep-stiff limbs, careful not to disturb the sleeping witch at his side. Pansy faced away from him, her breaths shallow, the gentle rise and fall of her chest steady. He curled around her, pressing his chest against her bare back and throwing a possessive arm around her waist. She made a noise, a gentle purr of contentment in the back of her throat and slept on.

Harry loved these lazy Sunday mornings, when he woke early out of habit and had the privilege of watching Pansy sleep, vulnerable and unguarded in the soft morning light. Sometimes she would crack a tired eye and tell him to stop being a creep, sometimes she would huff and curse and tell him to be useful and go put the kettle on. But sometimes she was like this, languishing in the hazy world between sleep and consciousness, warm and pliable, receptive to the kinds of tender caresses that she would have rebuked in waking hours. 

“Wake up, love,” he whispered, dropping his head to lay a dry kiss on her shoulder. His fingers drew patterns over the gentle swell of her stomach, ghosted over the curve of her breasts, dipped down to stroke the coarse patch of hair between her legs. His cock, half-hard from a barely remembered dream brushed against her arse. 

The noise she made this time was less than content, a pitiful grumble of annoyance. “Sleeping,” she mumbled, tugging uselessly at the sheet tangled and curling into herself. The movement put a new space between them, but allowed Harry a teasing glimpse between her splayed legs.

Harry couldn’t resist the temptation and reached for his heavy prick, giving it a few firm strokes as he drank in the sight of her, remembering how he’d been there just a few hours before, his face buried in the warmth of her cunt, drinking down her pungent taste as her thighs squeezed the sides of his head like a vice. 

He pulled her back towards him so she could feel the weight of his need pressed against her. He angled his cock so that it settled in the crack between her arsecheeks and moved, just a gentle cant of his hips. “Wake up, love,” he whispered again.

She said nothing, gave no indication that she'd heard him at all. Her breathes remained steady, her body relaxed. Harry rested his weight on one arm while his free hand found its way to her hip. He held her against him as he began to move, the subtle friction of dry skin on dry skin making up for the painfully slow pace of his rutting. Precome oozed from his reddening head and left a sticky trail across her pale skin. It wasn't enough to get him off, but it set his skin on fire, every nerve in his body awakening with a screaming need. 

Harry released his light grip on her hip and let his hand travel down. She was wet, whether from dreams of her own or an unconscious response to his touch, Harry didn't know. It didn't matter either, all that mattered was the slick feel of her cunt, the soft, velvet heat underneath his fingertips that he would give anything to sink into. His fingers sought her clit as his eyes watched her face, waiting patiently for the moment when she would throw off those last vestiges of sleep and join him. 

It didn't come. Pansy made a mewling sound, but her eyes remained shut and a peaceful smile spread across her face. Her legs closed tight, trapping his hand between her thighs. At first Harry worried it was an act of self-defense, an attempt to deny him access to those bits of her he wanted to touch so badly. But then she began to rock, her arse pressing up against his groin as her hips moved, grinding herself between the hand caught between her legs and the cock trapped between the curve of her arse and his stomach. 

It was intoxicating, watching Pansy writhe, knowing there was nothing contrived or even conscious in the way she move. Maybe she was trapped in that shallow dreamspace before waking, when the world of the living was able to break through the thin layer of sleep and influence foggy dreams. He wondered if she was dreaming of him, dreaming of this. 

But he couldn't relax, couldn't let go, because it felt too good, yet not good enough. It would be better, so much better, if he could push himself inside, feel the warmth of her cunt wrapped around him as she moved. “Pansy, please,” he said quietly. “Please wake up. I need to fuck you.”

She must have heard him, or maybe she heard the Harry in her dreams speak, because she let out a little whimper. Her slide of her body became less gentle, more insistent, and she pressed back with more pressure, grinding her arse against him with desperate little swivels of her hips. Harry tried to pull his hand free, but her legs squeezed tighter, holding it in place. “No,” she grumbled, her voice thick with sleep and a childlike sternness. “Stay.”

Harry's heart began to pound as the need to bury himself inside her tried to overwhelm him. He couldn't pull his arm away, but he could shimmy a few inches down the bed. He pulled his own hips back, trying desperately to free his cock – now fully erect and weeping from the slit – so he could angle, angle down, angle just there. 

The head of his cock slipped against her wet folds and he hissed as the sensation shot through his body, his nerves exploding like a series of firecrackers. He pushed forward, his cock slipping between the swollen lips of her cunt. It was glorious, so warm and smooth and wet. But it wasn't tight passage he wanted; he wasn't _inside_.

“Pansy,” he whimpered, not caring that his voice was high and pleading. “Fuck, Pansy.” His cock ached to be inside her, to feel the tight walls of her cunt pulsing around him.

She continued to rock, rubbing herself shamelessly against his hand. And then it happened, Harry felt the crown of his cockhead catch on the rim of her passage. He let out a sob and wrenched his hand free, grabbing onto her hip before she could protest. He held her still as he pushed his hips forward, sinking inching into that blinding wet heat in one steady thrust. 

Pansy gasped, and then suddenly her hand was on top of his on her hip, the nails of her fingers digging into the top of his hand. He pulled his hand away and reached down, grasping blindly for her leg so he could lift it, open her up, push in deeper. “Fucking hell,” she exhaled, her voice aware but still heavy with sleep. She groaned, a deep sound within her chest. “Goddammit, Harry.”

Harry couldn't bear to pull out too far and was more than happy to hold her against him, moving his hips in shallow, measured thrusts. He let go of her leg, but she maintained the position and moaned as he began to explore the the front of her body, his calloused fingers mapping her curves and causing a line of gooseflesh to break out wherever he touched. Her muscles clenched around him when he pinched her nipples, her body going taut in surprise and pleasure.

Pansy pulled his hand away from her breasts and guided it down, back to the junction between her legs. His fingers slipped between her fleshy lips and found her clit once more. She whimpered, small, begging sounds escaping the back of her throat as he began to rub small, tight circles that didn't match the leisurely pace of their fucking. She reached behind her, slipping her hand into his hair, and tugged – _hard_ – just as she clenched her muscles tight, holding him inside, refusing to let him go. 

“You're trying to kill me,” Harry gasped as he pushed against her. Her cunt was tight, the walls gripping hard onto his oversensitive cock so that every fractional movement sent a shock of crippling pleasure spiraling through his body. He could feel her working her muscles, tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing, as though she were trying to milk his orgasm from him with her cunt.

“That's what you get,” she moaned as she circled her hips, “for waking me up so damn early.”

His mind was useless, but his body moved on autopilot, stored muscle memory from the countless other times they'd fucked like this, slow and deep, almost torturous in its tender brutality. He hissed as he pushed into the tight grip and his hand continued to work. When he pinched her clit, rolling the distended nub between his fingers, she cried out. Her thighs began to shake and the muscles in her cunt spasmed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she chanted. 

Her line of her body went rigid, every muscle held taut for just a moment, before she deflated with a worn-out sigh. 

“You bastard,” she said with a throaty chuckle.

Harry laughed and kissed her sweat-soaked hair. He lifted her leg again, higher this time, and she let him. Her limbs were a heavy, dead weight, but he didn't care. He didn't need much, just a few earnest thrusts, and few clumsy pistons of his hips and then his balls were drawing up, his cock was pulsing, and he was emptying himself inside her coveted heat.

He pulled out slowly, then collapsed into the soft embrace of the mattress. Pansy rolled over, draping herself across him. He laughed again and slipped his arms around her shoulders, trying to haul her up to him, but found he hadn't the strength. Sighing, he abandoned his endeavor, choosing instead to relax into his post-orgasmic bliss.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she chirped. She kissed his chest, then bit down softly, nipping him with more affection than malice. 

“Shh,” Harry said, as his eyes fell closed. “I'm sleeping.”

The last thing he heard before slipping back into unconsciousness was another throaty chuckle and a threat to how he should expect to be woken up.

Harry loved these lazy Sunday mornings.


End file.
